Prayer must be animated. The arrow that would pierce the clouds must part from the bent bow and the strained arm.

It would be delightful to live in perfect trust, to doubt no one, and to believe all.

Providence never intended that any state here should be either completely happy or completely miserable.

The poor are confined to a somewhat narrow circle, yet within that circle lie most of those natural satisfactions which are found to be the most genuine and true.

The ruin of a state is generally preceded by a universal degeneracy of manners, and a contempt for religion.

True charity is not a meteor, which occasionally glares; but a luminary, which, in its orderly and regular course, dispenses a benignant and salutary influence.

Mounds of earth and monuments of marble shall pass away; but impressions made upon the deathless spirit, like scars upon the oak, become a part of itself, and abide forever.

Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing to help it out. It is always near at hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop out before we are aware.

Emulation, when founded in virtue, and limited to her bounds, will perform deeds that will be praised in heaven.

The day of life, spent in honest and benevolent labor, comes in hope to an evening calm and lovely; and though the sun declines, the shadows that he leaves behind are only to curtain the spirit into rest.

All truly great and noble minds are always humble in their feelings, and modest in their deportment. Sir Isaac Newton, one of the greatest philosophers, on being complimented for his attainments, said, I have indeed picked up a few pebbles upon the shore, but the great ocean of knowledge is still before me.

Sorrow is the noblest of all discipline. It is a scourge, but there is healing in its stripes. It is a chalice, and the drink is bitter, but strength proceeds from the bitterness. It is a crown of thorns, but it becomes a wreath of light on the brow which it has lacerated.

The style of Canning is like the convex mirror, which scatters every ray of light that falls upon it, and shines and sparkles in whatever position it is viewed; that of Brougham is like the

concave speculum, scattering no indiscriminate radiance, but having its light concentrated into one intense and tremendous focus.

He lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tempest, without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle.

We cannot rekindle the morning beams of childhood; we cannot recall the noontide glory of youth; we cannot bring back the perfect day of maturity; we cannot fix the evening rays of age in the shadowy horizon; but we can cherish that goodness which is the sweetness of childhood, the joy of youth, the strength of maturity, the honor of old age, and the bliss of saints.

O lay me, ye that see the light, near some rock of my hills. Let the thick hazels be around; let the rustling oak be near. Green be the place of my rest; let the sound of the distant torrent be heard. Daughter of Toscar, take the harp and raise the lovely song of Selma, that sleep may overtake my soul in the midst of joy, that the dreams of my youth may return, and the days of the mighty Fingal.

Glorious New England! thou art still true to thy ancient fame, and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early life; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Revolution; and far away in the horizon of thy past gleam, like thy own bright northern lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires.

The streets were almost impassable, from the countless multitudes; the windows and balconies were crowded with the fair; the very roofs were covered with spectators. It seemed as if the public eye could not be sated with gazing on these trophies of an unknown world, or on the remarkable man by whom it had been discovered.

It is not the real past that, with the scholar's aid, is restored and revived. That never comes back again. The landscapes o ime, as they recede from us, are softened and mellowed by the

distance. The historic eye creates the colors which seem spread over the pictures of dead times. And hence the universal, incorrigible, strange illusion of a golden age in the infancy of the race; of a retrocession from perfection, always the more apparent, the further it is from being real.

The nation which indulges towards another an habitual hatred, or an habitual fondness, is, in some degree, a slave. It is a slave to its animosity, or to its affection, either of which is suf ficient to lead it astray from its duty and its interests.

How vain are eloquence and poetry, compared with heavendescended truth! Put in one scale that simple utterance, and in the other the lore of antiquity, with its accumulating glosses and commentaries, and the last will be light and trivial in the balance. Greek poetry has been likened to the song of the nightingale as she sits in the rich, symmetrical crown of the palmtree, trilling her thick-warbled notes; but even this is less sweet and tender than the music of the human heart.

Beauty is an all-pervading presence. It unfolds in the numberless flowers of spring. It waves in the branches of the trees, and in the green blades of grass. It haunts the depths of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone. The universe is its temple; and those who are alive to it, cannot lift their eyes without feeling themselves encompassed by it on every side.

Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is heard! The feeble will not behold them in the hall, or smile at their trembling hands. Their memory shall be honored in song; the young tear of the virgin will fall. But the aged wither away by degrees; the fame of their youth, while yet they live, is all forgot. They fall in secret. The sigh of their son is not heard. Joy is around their tomb; the stone of their fame is placed with out a tear.

Life is rich for the affections. This is wealth that increases with its use. It is a strength that mounts higher and higher, which at every advance of elevation takes a wider sweep, and warms as it widens. The love of the child reaches to the parent; it spreads to brothers, sisters, and companions. But while the parent's love to the child is such as child can never return, it is a love that does not exhaust itself in the child; it spreads from

family to friends, from friends to mankind, and from the household hearth to the infinite and eternal heights of heaven.

The first ages of society are not the times of arbitrary power. As the wants of mankind are few, they retain their independ ence. It is an advanced state of civilization that moulds the mind to that submission to government, of which ambitious magistrates take advantage, and raise themselves into absolute power.

To superior goodness all should bow with the deepest veneration. To be GOOD is better than to be great. All reverence the goodness of Washington more than the mighty power of Napoleon. True goodness is often found in the most humble stations. It is quite as likely to exist among the poor as among the rich. But wherever found, it should draw forth the purest homage of our hearts.

The path which leads to the mount of ascension does not lie among flowers; and he who travels it must climb the cold hillside, he must have his feet cut by the pointed rocks, he must faint in the dark valley, he must not seldom have his rest at midnight on the desert sand. It is no small thing for which a true liver strives. It is for the perfection, for the sanctification, of humanity in himself and in the world. It is not by ease that this is done, but by efforts grand and blessed.

O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, oh sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty: the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven: but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when the thunder rolls and the lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hair flow on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in the clouds, careless of the voice of the morning.

CLASS BOOK

OF

PROSE AND POETRY.

PART I-PROSE

EXERCISE I.

Journey of a Day; a Picture of Human Life.-JOHNSON.

OBIDAH, the son of Abensina, left the caravansary early in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by desire; he walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and 5 saw the hills gradually rising before him. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise; he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew from groves of spices. He sometimes contemplated the tow- 10 ering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring: all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart.

Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, 15 and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked round about him for some more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation; he entered it,